forget me, forget me not
by lydiamartins
Summary: This is not a fairytale. -—HeatherCam


Open House is something of nightmares.

Her mother tells her, _Heather, darling, why don't you go play with the other children? Heather, darling, why don't you go to the gym with the rest of the girls – it never hurts to lose a little weight, now and then, now does it? Heather, darling, you know who would be a wonderful friend – Claire Lyons, she has such a darling frame! Heather, darling, go do you your homework – god knows that your father can't buy your way into college, not with the economy in this way, so you need something to fall back onto. Heather, darling, aren't you going to come for dinner?_

Heather only stares blankly, beading almonds staring into her own mother's stereotypical bright blue orbs, always questioning, always scrutinizing, a response of silence, and after a while, her mother stops asking and Heather is forgotten.

.

The brother comes along, shortly after.

He's a small, little thing – something out of a previous marriage, but he's welcomed faster into the family then Heather ever had been. She treads heavily, footsteps beating down upon the mahogany hardwood floors which cast distorted reflections of her own figure, and drops a china pot upon the floor, just for the purpose of seeing if anybody would actually notice; she walks into the dining room, her step-brother propped up in a baby chair, food dripping from his mouth, green liquid dropping down onto satin pajama pants, and Heather examines her mother and new step-father, who are engrossed in other such unmentionable, non-Westchurian activities, kissing each other furiously against the kitchen corner (she remembers that she used to cut apple slices and dip them into apricot jam; never again), and she clears her throat, stepping backwards.

_Oh, Heather, darling, you're home! Would you be such a darling and help your poor, old mother take care of Sebastian?_ Mother doesn't bother waiting for a reply, and the step-father leads her upstairs; Heather fingers fraying edges of headphones, and blasts rhythmic music into her ears, but even the reassuring tunes of her favorite songs can't take her away from this world.

.

_Let's be happy for one night, just this once, even if we have to cry ourselves to sleep for the rest, _Nikki offers, tantalizing; she stands on the outskirts of a grassy field in the forested regions of Westchester, midnight sky blanketing the atmosphere, though the faint outlines and wisps of cigarette smoke are clear through the dusk. _Don't you want to be happy?_

She fingers the pill of 'forgetfulness' presses the label to her forehead, and it quickly seeps through layers of thick skin, until Heather forgets, and is happy (until she remembers). It's an endless cycle, really – forget, remember, forget, remember – until one day, Heather thinks that she'll forget to remember, and will be lost in all of oblivion.

Maybe being lost is exactly what she needs.

.

She smiles a toothy, little grin that seems to come too easily to her, and Heather lets the edges of her manicured toes fall into the murky stream, dangling on the edge; _Cam, you've got to come over here; it's really lovely, don't you think?_

_Heather, we have homework to do; your mother's going to come in a while, and I don't think that she'd like to find you here, _Cam says; forgetfulness is branded to her forehead, and she feels lost. She doesn't feel that happy, though – the momentary high isn't what it used to be, but Heather's not ready to even give that up, now.

_Why can't you just appreciate anything for what it is? _The world really is beautiful, if you take a step back from your convoluted, drama-filled lives. Everything is just so beautiful, always – forever and always is a promise on the tip of her tongue, and it bleeds through her lips which purse, pressed upon white rusted leaves, and Heather thinks that the beauty of nature is something worth holding onto.

A human friend would be nice, though – to be somebody's first choice. Her parents' first choice is each other, then her step-brother, then their friends; she doesn't really have friends; her so-called friends (suppliers) favor drugs over people any day. Maybe she should be like that. There would be a lot less pain that way – human attachment and sentiment is over; sentiment is a defect, an emotion found on the losing side. _I've got to go, Heather; it's just that uh, Massie's waiting for me –_

_She's not even your girlfriend, Cameron. She's not even your girlfriend, but you'd drop the world for her, wouldn't you? _He leaves, and Heather learns that people can't bear to hear the truth, that words are a million times worse said out loud than in your head, and thinks that he was supposed to be different. Flowers from Alsacian territories weave themselves into flower crowns, braided into honey-colored hair; she sits, legs straight out in front of her, reaching forward, cheeks lying upon the thin fabric of polyester, holes already forming. _Forget me, forget me not, _Heather murmurs, high-pitched voice, counting off leaves until there are none left.

She's dangling her toes again, then; she's dangling them on the edge of insanity.


End file.
